


Mantichora

by The_Moss_Stomper



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII
Genre: Action, Dark, Gen, Horror, Laboratories, Mild Gore, Shinra Company, Suspense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-31
Updated: 2015-09-13
Packaged: 2018-04-18 07:56:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4698248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Moss_Stomper/pseuds/The_Moss_Stomper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One of Hojo's specimens breaks free and causes havoc in the Science Department. The Turks are sent in to clean up the mess. What they find, however, is not what they expect.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Hunters

**Author's Note:**

> I came up with a couple of challenges for myself: to write in present tense and to write a horror story. How did I do? Well, I'm hoping you'll tell me! The result is this three-chapter story, which will be posted over the next couple of weeks. It takes place before the events of FF7 and each chapter is written from a different point of view.
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

The man creeps forward, gripping the handle of his weapon firmly in his long fingers, and wishes he was somewhere else, anywhere else.

"Yo, Rude," he whispers. "Think Dr. Freaky's gonna live?"

His bald companion ignores him.

Reno peeks over his shoulder at the imposing security doors, sealed tight to put the laboratories in lockdown, then lets his eyes follow the grisly trail of blood smeared along the floor and, occasionally, walls. Hojo's trail, he surmises.

"Shit, he probably will. We ain't that lucky."

Every time the professor smiles, Reno expects the lips will continue to peel back until his face falls off and some fucked-up monstrosity pops out instead. He does not feel particularly inclined to recapture whatever thing nearly killed the Head of the Science Department, but orders are orders.

"Hey, whaddaya call it? Hojo gettin' torn up by one of his own freaks, I mean. It's got some special name. Poetic justice? That it?"

Rude's shades glint in the feeble glow of the emergency lighting as he turns his head. Reno feels, rather than sees, the stern look leveled upon him.

"Alright, alright, fine. I'll keep it down, yo."

As the Turks advance, the sallow floor-lighting makes their shadows dance ominously across the smooth, sterile surfaces of the Science floor. Reno experiences vague regrets about coming into work today.

It's too quiet, the younger Turk reckons. He gnaws on his bottom lip, opens his mouth, then remembers his promise and closes it, pushing a hand through the mess of scarlet hair crowning his head instead. He checks the settings of his mag rod. Battery full, set to stun, good to go. He extends the weapon with a practiced flick of his wrist and feels a tiny bit better.

He has a gun, too, tucked away in a shoulder holster under his jacket; but before the professor passed out, the man was adamant that his specimen be caught alive. Shame the old creep was less specific about what the specimen actually is. A top secret experiment, that is all Reno knows; Turk eyes only. Just his luck that he and Rude are the only ones present at Shinra HQ right now.

Reno glances up at his burly partner. He hopes two Turks are enough. Whatever it is, it broke free and slaughtered most of Hojo's team, then somehow cut the main power to the whole damned floor.

As if on cue, the anemic auxiliary lighting falters, fades, and just as the red-haired Turk's heart begins to sink, it flashes back to nominal. He scowls at the nearest lamp and mentally aims choice profanities at the electricians working on the power problem.

The first room is empty, save for a few stacks of crates. Halfway to the next room, a dull clang breaks the silence, followed by a faint whimper.

Reno drops into a defensive crouch and shares a look with Rude, who mirrors his pose. The redhead flicks his head toward the open doorway at the end of the hall. With soundless efficiency, the two men hustle into position on either side of it. After a few seconds' pause to listen for signs of alarm, the redhead peers in.

It is a mess. Desks and chairs lie where they were thrown, overturned in a scatter of books and papers. The large monitor on the wall is cracked and dark.

A figure is hunched over a body on the floor. The live one – a woman with long, brown hair pulled into a ponytail and her back to the Turks – is tugging at the dead one's belt. Reno's lips twist into a sour grimace when he recognizes Shinra security uniforms on both of them. Just what they need: more complications.

He glances as his partner and tilts his head. No words are needed; they have both been Turks for long enough to know there are only two ways this can play out. She dies now, or she dies later. Hojo is notoriously uptight about protecting his secret projects.

Rude shrugs, content to leave the choice up to his fellow Turk, then waits for his call.

It would be a clean shot from here, no fuss, but he has no idea what they're up against. Hojo could have anything locked up in the high-security laboratories. It would be smarter to keep an extra pair of hands around for now. Besides, the noise might attract trouble.

His decision made, Reno unfurls his lanky body and adopts a well-rehearsed slouch. As he strolls into the room he slings the mag rod over his shoulder, ready to swing it into action if need be.

"Hey," he calls out. "What's a girl like you doin' in a hole like this?"

His voice is pitched low, but she starts and whirls around with a speed that sends her flat on her ass. Her stained hands leave bright red streaks on the floor as she scrambles for purchase and Reno frowns, giving her a more careful inspection. Blood soaks the sleeves of her light blue shirt and her pants are covered in dark, wet splotches, but she doesn't appear injured.

The stench assaults his nostrils after just a few steps inside, followed by a jolt of dismay when he shifts his attention to the body she had been looting. The corpse is torn open by deep gouges, the man's guts spilling to the floor through split skin, lined with the jagged ends of cracked ribs. The Turk stares, speechless for once, then looks away before his lunch decides to take a wrong turn.

His eyes fall on a second corpse, hidden from his previous vantage point; this one in a white lab coat, but mutilated just like the first. A third one lies in a pool of blood near a door on the other side of the room. It appears to be missing a head.

His heart drums with anxious energy, his hands have turned clammy and cold, but appearances must be maintained. Reno snaps his mouth shut, plants his free hand on his hip and sighs.

"Well, fuck," he states. "Bad day to show up for work, huh?"

The woman stares at him with disbelief and naked suspicion. He keeps his own face free of emotions, noting her nervous tics and wild-eyed expression with some disapproval. Well, she _is_ from security. Glorified janitors, that bunch. Hardly Turk material. He wonders if she is even fit to fight.

"You okay? In one piece?"

She stares, for a second or two longer than he finds comfortable, then responds with a sharp nod. The gray eyes hold his for another moment, then dart aside to look over his shoulder. Rude must have entered the room.

"So... What happened?" he prompts once the large man comes to a halt beside him.

A few seconds tick by. When she speaks, her voice is shaky, hesitant.

"We were attacked," she says. "I ran and hid, but the others weren't as lucky."

Reno can think of a thing or several to say about a security guard that runs away while the employees she is supposed to protect get chewed to bits, but manages to refrain from commenting.

"Attacked by what?" he asks instead.

"I... I don't know." Her tongue darts over her lip and she casts a skittish peek over her shoulder. "Some kind of animal."

"Okay, so what did it look like?" he nudges again, feeling his modest reserves of patience trickle away.

"It was big. Big and red." Her eyes flick to the mop on his head. "Red fur that was longer on its head, like a... a scruffy mane."

"Two legs? Four legs? Horns? Wings? Tentacles?"

"Four legs. A tail. Kind of like a wolf, but red and bigger."

Utterly useless, the Turk decides, and changes the subject.

"So, how the hell did ya get in here? Security ain't s'posed to come anywhere near the labs. The top floors are Turk turf, yo."

She shrinks at the steely edge in his tone and stumbles over her answer.

"Grady told me to come along, said one of the scientists needed help bringing some containers in here. I couldn't say no. I've only been here a couple of weeks."

"Grady? That's your buddy there?" He gestures to the mangled corpse and she nods. "Huh. Sucks to be him. What were ya doin' with the guy just now, anyway?"

"I wanted to get his gun," she mumbles, averting her gaze.

"What's wrong with yours?"

"It's not here."

Reno blinks, then looks down at her waist. The holster is conspicuously absent, along with her belt. How did he miss that detail?

"Are ya tellin' me you forgot your goddamn gun?"

"I was late! Grady rushed me before I'd finished changing. I didn't think it would be a big deal!"

He stares at her, amazed at the incompetence of Shinra security, and questions his decision not to put a bullet in her brain straight away.

"You ain't much of a security guard, are ya?"

She bites down on a reply to that, but the fierce indignation in her eyes gives him a little hope that she might have some fight in her after all.

"Forgot your jacket too, did ya?"

"No," the woman snaps, then makes a disgusted face. "It was covered in... guts. I took it off."

Rude tilts his head toward his partner and tightens his fists, letting the quiet creak of his leather gloves do the talking. Reno gets the message: less talk, more action.

"'Kay, whatever. I'm thinkin' we oughta stick together. Better chance of catchin' this beastie and gettin' the hell outta here that way, yo."

"You want to _catch_ it?" She scoffs and shakes her head. "You're out of your mind. Count me out."

The brunette stumbles onto her feet, but Reno speaks up again before she can take a single step.

"Turks outrank Security. I just gave ya an order."

She shakes her head vigorously and heads toward the door.

"Oh no, no way, I've had enough of this. I'm leaving, now."

"You sure 'bout that?" he calls after her. "We're locked down, code red. Gonna need Turk clearance to open the doors, darlin', and you ain't gonna get it unless you do as you're told."

The woman's shoulders go tense and she stops. With visible reluctance, she retraces her steps.

"Good girl," he croons, allowing himself a smirk. "I'm Reno. This is Rude. And you?"

She shifts her eyes back and forth between them as he makes the introductions. The muscles in her jaw flex.

"Pierce," she finally says.

Pierce turns toward her dead colleague and gives the belt around his waist a sullen tug. The belt springs free with a sickening squelch and more of the unfortunate man's insides slide out of the gaping holes in his body. Reno feels his stomach do a quick flip, but the woman's face turns three shades whiter. She staggers to the nearest desk and ducks behind it.

"Whaddya think, buddy?" the redhead asks his colleague, raising his voice to be heard over the sound of retching. "Holding pens first? Check what critter's missin'?"

Rude, whose face has also taken on a more unusual hue, nods in agreement.

* * *

 

As a general rule, Reno likes to pretend that he has never visited the laboratories, has never laid eyes on any of Hojo's fucked-up experiments – or the creep himself, for that matter – but the longer he spends in the Science Department's facilities, the harder it becomes to maintain the illusion. They have not ventured into any of the labs so far, and yet an old, familiar loathing has settled in his belly and twists his guts into a knot of apprehension that has nothing to do with what he has faced today.

It is the smell, he decides. He despises it with an instinctive aversion buried deep in his bones. It is as if the walls themselves reek of old fear and death, and it only worsens the deeper they go. Reaching the holding pens is a blessing. The stench of monster musk and droppings is strong enough to seep into the corridor outside and overpower everything else.

"Something's wrong," Pierce says.

Reno stops, hand wrapped around the handle of the half-opened door. Puzzlement creases his brow and he turns toward the guard, but with the next intake of air he picks up on it too: the sickly-sweet tang of blood mingling with the more powerful odors. A sudden burst of alarm rushes through his body, but he knows how to harness it, how to take advantage of the sharpened senses.

The redhead hunches down and signals to the others to wait while he sneaks in for a closer look. The low ceiling, criss-crossed by pipes and held up by concrete columns, reminds him of the underground parking garage some seventy floors below; only instead of painted parking spots, the space is segmented by steel walls and bars.

The dim glow of the emergency lights create too many shadows and dark corners for his liking. Taking cover behind the nearest pillar, his eyes scan over the cages lining the walls and settle on the half-eaten, unidentifiable corpses in the middle of the room. None that he can see look human. That is some relief, he supposes. The fact that all cages are empty, some with doors wide open; not so much.

He is not alone. It is not a knowledge based on observable facts, but on a fierce survival instinct he has learned to trust. It warns with a tingling along his spine, with the raised hairs on the nape of his neck. His ears prick up. His grip tightens on the baton.

Reno thinks he hears a faint clicking sound but cannot be sure; his mind conjures up images of claws on concrete. He creeps farther into the room with a silent tread, switching on his mag rod with a quiet hum. His ears pick up another click, stronger this time, and he catches himself thumbing the rod's shock output to full. Capture, not kill. Reluctantly, the Turk dials the weapon back to stun, not at all sure it will have any effect on Hojo's freaky pets. He glances over his shoulder, trying to catch Rude's eye.

A savage snarl is the only warning he gets. He whips his head back around and in the split-second it takes to react, he registers murderous, bloodshot eyes and gleaming fangs. On pure reflex, his body twists and jerks to the side, avoiding the teeth, but the creature's massive weight slams into his shoulder and knocks him down.

Reno uses the momentum of the impact to roll away as soon as he hits the floor and finds his feet just in time to face the second attack. This time he dodges, swings, then dances to the side as the sparks fly. The monster mewls in pain and fear, flounders blindly and crashes into a pillar, slumping down in a jumble of purple fur and enraged growls. A wolf, Reno realizes as the beast writhes on the floor, its clawed paws flailing around for hold; a weird, mutated wolf that only seems more pissed off after the shock it received.

The Turk dives for the nearest cage just as the beast scrambles to its feet. He wildly gropes for the cage door as the animal lunges for him a third time, but only manages to pull it halfway before the wolf crashes into it, throwing him backwards. A roar thunders through his head and rattles his ribs; then all he knows is the pain.

It takes him a few seconds to figure out he isn't dead; a few more to figure that might be an improvement, considering the agony that throbs in the back of his skull, pulsing in time with his racing heart. Reno grits his teeth and opens his eyes with a groan, blinking away the bright lights that cavort across his vision. Lolling his head to the side, he realizes why he is still alive. Beyond the closed door of the cage, he spies Rude squatting down next to an immobile mass of fur. The bright red tuft of a tranquilizer dart sticks out of the animal's flank.

"For fuck's sake, man, what took ya so goddamn long?" Reno groans and lets his body go limp, soaking up the relief that floods through his chest and out into his shaking limbs.

Rude merely raises an eyebrow and straightens up.

While his partner and the guard drag the unconscious monster into another holding cell, Reno allows himself several deep breaths before he gathers himself off the cage floor into a sitting position. His eyes land on the torn sleeve of his jacket. He stares at it for several seconds, wondering when that happened. A closer inspection reveals a matching tear in his shirt and a long gash along his forearm. It bleeds, but is little more than a scratch. Better than having his throat torn out, the Turk muses.

He probes the back of his head with fingers that still tremble in the aftermath of the adrenaline rush, and grimaces as the light touch sets off another stab of pain through his brain. His eyes don't seem to focus quite right and a mild dizziness washes over him when he stands up. Concussion, probably. Again.

"I hope one of you useless bastards had enough brains to bring a Cure or somethin', cause my head's fuckin' killin' me," he gripes as he reaches for the cage door.

The door is locked. Reno regrets ever getting out of bed in the morning.

Rude appears on the other side of the bars and assesses the situation.

"Pierce," he rumbles.

When the woman joins him and gives them both a quizzical look, he gestures to his captive partner.

"Red, scruffy mane. Think it's your beastie?"

Reno gapes, then clenches his fists and glowers at the other man.

The confusion on the brunette's face deepens, but it only takes a couple of seconds before her eyes widen in understanding.

"Could be," she says thoughtfully, lips twitching. "He's got the same bloodthirsty look about him."

"Bit scrawny, though," the bald man continues. "Doesn't look that dangerous."

"Rude," Reno growls, "don't you ever shut up?"

* * *

 

Reno, now with an ache-free head thanks to half a hi-potion, nudges a carcass with the toe of his boot. It could be another wolf mutant. It could just as well be something else. The gouged flesh and gnawed bones do not tell him much, apart from the obvious fact that something had been very hungry. With any luck, the chewed cadavers mean Turks are currently off the menu.

"Kalm fangs, death claw," Pierce mumbles as she reads through an inventory of the holding pens' inhabitants. "I know what those look like and it wasn't one of them."

Reno wanders over to her as she speaks and peeks over her shoulder. A few obscure code names are listed in addition to the monster species. One of them catches his eye.

"'Red XIII', huh? Wonder if that's its color."

"Could be, I guess?" The woman tosses the document onto the metal trolley she found it on. "This isn't going to help us. There's just a bunch of numbers and letters next to the names."

Her eyes are intriguing, Reno thinks, dark gray like swirling storm clouds just before the lightning comes. She has a cooler head on her shoulders than the first impression suggested, too. Such a shame she had to wander into places she didn't belong.

"Guess it don't really matter anyway," he sighs and stuffs his hands into his trouser pockets. "We gotta round up everythin' that's on the loose, yo."

The Turk looks around and spots his partner in the back of the room, inspecting one of the cages. As he saunters over, he ponders putting in a word for her to Tseng before Hojo hears about unauthorized personnel in the labs, then mentally slaps himself for considering it. Her fuck-up, not his. Not his circus, not his monkey.

"What's up?" he asks, bending forward at the hip to peer into the cage that has captured Rude's interest.

"Red fur," the larger man murmurs, holding up a few strands in his gloved hand.

Reno glances at the number above the cage and matches it to one he remembers from the inventory list.

"Guess this 'Red XIII' might be our beastie," he concludes. "Why come back here, tho'? Wanted a snack, maybe?"

"Maybe," Rude says. "Maybe not."

"What else? Slow us down with more monsters on the loose?" He does not like the sound of that. "Think it's that smart?"

"Smart enough to open cages," his partner points out.

And tough enough not to worry about the consequences. Reno likes that implication even less.

"Smart or not, the fuckin' thing sure knows how to make our job suck harder," he grumbles. "Better get a move on. These monsters ain't gonna catch 'emselves, yo."

Rude nods and exits the cage. The redhead straightens up, turns around. He frowns.

"Where is she?"

An inhuman snarl tears through the brief silence that follows. The Turks trade a quick glance, then dash for the door. By the time they reach it, both men have their weapons in their hands, raised and ready.

To Reno, the poorly lit corridor looks even murkier than before, but he sees enough to deem it empty. Vicious growls and yelps bounce off the walls and echo through the desolate space, making it impossible to pinpoint their origin.

"Shit! Which way?"

"Let's split up," Rude suggests.

"Gotcha!"

Reno takes off to the left. The first room looks like an examination room of some kind; full of medical equipment he can't identify, but devoid of life. He darts toward the next one.

The cacophony of beastly sounds ends abruptly. Reno stops dead in his tracks, ears ringing in the sudden stillness, and presses his back against the wall, his head swiveling from side to side as he tries to keep an eye on both ends of the hallway. Rude has disappeared.

The light shifts. A shadow appears in the doorway he was heading toward. It flickers, divides, then comes together again. The sound of heavy breathing reaches Reno's ears; too heavy for a human. The Turk's chest feels tight; his own breaths are labored, and not from the running. He inches closer to the doorway, his eyes glued to the strange shadow-play on the floor. The darkness frolics in odd ways; he cannot make out a recognizable shape. Every primal impulse in his body screams at him to run.

The dancing shades go still. So does Reno, and he holds his breath, listening intently. Nothing. Not even the breathing.

A glance over his shoulder tells him Rude is still missing. He is on his own. The redhead closes the remaining distance to the door and sneaks a furtive peek. In the gloom of the backup lights, he can make out the outlines of large cylinders – Mako tanks, he recognizes, although empty ones. He strains his ears and hopes the wild drumming of his heart won't drown out the sounds of his quarry.

Still nothing. He can only hope his partner will show up to drag his ass out of trouble sooner rather than later. Muscles coiled tight with tension, the Turk enters. He stalks deeper, padding silently from tank to tank, all senses on high alert.

The stench of disinfectant and stale Mako hangs heavy in the air, but it cannot conceal the tang of copper and wet fur, which grows stronger the further in he goes. Reno discovers the first smudges of blood just after the first cylinder, and follows their trail. When he reaches his third tank, a faint light catches his eye. Not the pale green luminosity of Mako, but a warm glow, orange like the last rays of a setting sun. A stab of apprehension sends goosebumps crawling over his skin.

Reno approaches with slow, wary steps, seeking comfort from the heft of the mag rod in his hand, now set to a significantly higher power level. Adrenaline surges through his veins, bringing forth the undeniable thrill of the hunt. As he gets closer, the redhead realizes that the source of the illumination is obscured by a shapeless blob he cannot identify, about waist-high. A few more steps, and he notices the same, unsteady flicker of light he saw in the doorway. Kind of like... fire?

The blob moves. Wild shadows dance across the room as a flaming tail emerges from behind a crouching body, outlining the creature in a halo of red fur. A baleful eye glares at him, glowing with feral rage, and the Turk's mouth goes dry as he recognizes the fire lion from Cosmo Canyon.

"Oh _shit_!"

The great feline pounces, claws bared and snarling, and Reno wishes his last words had been wittier.


	2. The Hunted

The red-furred feline lies beneath a low shelf, flanks quivering, and thinks of the scorching sun of Cosmo Canyon. He does not know how long it has been since he felt its rays warm his back. He does not know if he will ever see it again. He hopes so. It may be foolish, but he cannot stop clinging to hope, no matter how futile it seems. He has little else left.

Nanaki does not know if he will survive this day. That, too, seems unlikely, but he hopes.

The small room is not dark, thanks to his burning tail. It is alight with a heatless flame, however, and the floor is cold beneath him. He has remained curled up here for quite some time now, but the smooth, shiny surface has not absorbed his body heat; instead it just seems to sap him of it.

The youngster is scared. It is true that fear has been a constant companion ever since he was brought to Shinra, never leaving the pit of his belly, but this is a different kind of dread. It coils tight around his chest, weakens his limbs and chokes his breath. It is not a fear of the unknown, but of the _unnatural_ : the perverted embodiment of malevolence these foolish humans have created.

His eyes are fixed on the closed door. If it opens, there is nowhere to hide. He chose this place because of the chemicals stored on the shelves, sharp and acrid, and endures the stinging in his sensitive nose because they hide his scent. With the Beast on the loose, that is more important.

It is quiet. It has been quiet for a while now. Nanaki wonders if he is the only one left alive. It seems that is to be his fate. The last of his species, the last of Hojo's specimens.

It began when he heard its screech, and the screams of the humans. They all did, all of Hojo's unfortunate specimens in their cages, but he was the only one with the wits to understand what must have happened. When _it_ appeared, the panic tore through animal and monster like wildfire; and when it opened the cages, chaos erupted. It dashed and spun in the center of it all, reveling in the turmoil; maw slavering, claws gouging, tail skewering.

And Nanaki, what did he do? Did he stand up and fight? Did he use his intellect to outwit and outmaneuver the threat? No. Nanaki, the last protector of Cosmo Canyon, had skulked away with his tail between his legs while his cellmates were ripped apart. He had fled, shoving his way past howling beasts and wailing humans without a second thought.

His tail twitches sharply and the shadows flinch as if they, too, feel the pang of shame. He wonders what his grandfather, eccentric but wise, would say about his behavior. He knows what Deneh, his fellow guardian, would say.

But his grandfather is far away, safe within reach of the energizing sun of Cosmo Canyon. Deneh now lies silent, bound by her duty to the Planet.

If he is to ever see them again, he must leave this place. This could be his chance. This is the first time he has been free of the cage. The humans are in disarray, the Beast is drawing their attention. Nanaki could flee and see the sun again. He could go home.

If only his legs would obey him, he could escape.

Nanaki has seen several decades, but he is still young, not yet an adult of his species. He may have centuries ahead of him. How long will it be before he forgets the feel of the sun's heat, buried alive in Hojo's laboratories? When will he forget his family, his friends?

The longing intensifies, and finally, it grows stronger than the fear. Nanaki rises and pretends the tremble in his oversized paws and gangly limbs is not there.

The metal of the door chills his muzzle as he pushes against it, and once it cracks open, other unpleasant sensations assault his sensitive nose. He smells blood and fear and death; but draped heavy over all else is the vile odor of the Beast. His whiskers itch from the sheer _wrongness_ of it.

He slinks through lifeless corridors and lifeless rooms, carefully stepping around broken glass and broken bodies, until he picks up on traces of new scents. Humans, he concludes, but the reek of the Beast is everywhere and smothers the identifying details. Lacking a plan, he follows the trail. If the humans are still alive, he can at the very least warn them.

If they'll listen, he mentally adds, and resentment curls his lips. The ones in white coats never do.

The human scent grows stronger as he nears the room where they kept him caged, but so does that of the Beast. Nanaki hesitates, then ducks in through an open door to keep out of sight, stowing away in a small examination room. He does not wish to reveal himself until he knows where the monster is lurking, but he is unable to locate it with his nose and the smooth floors provide little to track. His ears flick once, twice, while he ponders what to do.

By the time he picks up the soft sound of running paws, it is too late. He can no longer leave the room without being seen. The adolescent feline skitters in under the examination table and crouches down.

The patter of paws slows to a halt, somewhere close. Too close. Nanaki holds his breath as the creature sniffs several times. The loud snort that follows startles him and he instinctively flicks his tail. The shadows twitch and Nanaki feels his blood run cold. He has just made a fatal mistake.

The Beast lands in the doorway with a heavy thud, blocking the only exit. Nanaki's skin crawls and his ears flatten against his skull. The face is grotesque; recognizable as once human, but there is nothing human about the bloodcurdling cry it lets out. The eyes gleam red in the light of his tail, the fangs slimy yellow.

It strikes. He barely evades the sting of its lunging tail, black and insectile, its barbed tip sharp and vicious. Nanaki scrambles out from underneath the table as the segmented tail stabs a second time, and then the Beast is upon him with tooth and claw.

He fights with panicked frenzy; claws slashing at tawny fur, jaws snapping. The Beast is ferocious and fast, dancing sometimes on four paws, sometimes on two, always staying out of reach. Nanaki hops and feints, trying to reach the door, but captivity has made him weak. He is tiring too quickly. The relentless abomination swipes and stabs, again and again, and eventually, the feline is too slow. Claws dig into his side and gouge across his ribs. He howls and recoils, then charges straight ahead in desperation. The Beast, taken by surprise, dodges to the side and Nanaki sees his chance. He bolts for the door.

The monster roars in frustration and swings at him one more time as he flies past. He jerks his head aside and almost avoids the strike.

One of the claws snags his face and carves deep across his eye. Nanaki wails in shock, but does not stop; he sprints recklessly as fast as his body will go, numb to everything but his instincts.

The pain is what returns him to his senses. His side glows hot with it and he has to slow down. Nanaki strains his ears and nose, trying to sense anything over the blood roaring through his veins and the meaty metal smell of it cloying his nostrils. He glances around him, too, but it is a half-hearted attempt. He cannot trust his vision. Something is wrong with it.

He slows his pace, trying to calm his breathing as he weaves his laborious way through cylinders of metal and glass, aiming for the light of a doorway ahead. He does not know where it leads, only that it will take him farther from the Beast. That is good enough for him.

A new scent pierces the olfactory blanket of blood and old chemicals, wafting into the room from his destination. A human male, but friend or foe? Nanaki cannot take any chances, not when he is injured like this. He quiets his breathing and retraces his steps, slowly, quietly, keeping an eye on the doorway. He cannot go back the way he came, though. He must hide. Nanaki slips in behind a large piece of laboratory equipment. This time, he tucks his fiery tail under his body.

The human makes no sound, but Nanaki's nose tells him the man has entered the room. His eyes widen when he remembers the scent, recognizes the peculiar combination of burning air and the man's sharp sweat. The skinny human with the crazy mane and false smiles; the one who took him away from his home, who brought him to this place, where they poke and stab and cut _and_ _burn_ _and hurt_. The young feline's fur bristles. He won't let the man take him again. He won't!

The scent of his hunter grows stronger, stinging his nose like the thorns of a cactuar. His eye socket pulses with agony, the gashes across his ribs burn with every strangled breath. Defend yourself, he thinks. Fight, the animal instincts snarl back. The fear thunders through his veins, drowning all reason, bringing forth a rage that resonates through every cell of his aching body. His lips peel back. The claws slide out. Fight! _Kill!_

The human skulks into view. Nanaki leaps.

He feels the searing pain tear through his shoulder before he registers the bang. It throws him off balance and he falls without control. The abrupt landing sends another explosion of torment through his battered body; all Nanaki can do is writhe on the ground, yowling, limbs thrashing, tail swishing. He hears shouting and smells danger, _danger,_ and he must run, he must get away, _now_! By some miracle his hind claws dig into the floor and he propels himself up and forward, away from the voices.

He cannot see, he cannot hear. Nanaki runs, fueled by a blind panic, bumping into walls and crashing through anything in his way.

Something bounds into view just as he is about to round a corner and the sudden shock returns a shred of his senses. A catlike creature, but smaller than him, with irregular spots dotting its golden fur. It screeches, arches its back and Nanaki attacks before it has a chance to, before it can hurt him like all the others. It hisses and leaps to the side, but he catches it midair in his powerful jaws and with a sharp jerk upward, snaps its neck like a dry twig.

The animal goes limp and heavy in his mouth. He drops it and flees.

* * *

 

Nanaki finds himself in his old hiding place, unable to say when or how he ended up there. His limbs shake from both exhaustion and fear. The loss of his eye fills his whole being with a repulsed dismay and he recoils from the thought, cannot fully comprehend it yet.

What truly terrifies him, however, is how easy it was to relinquish his mind to the primal instincts of a beast. He had meant to kill the human. He had imagined his teeth around the scrawny neck, the warm blood spilling onto his tongue, and it had egged him on.

Nanaki recalls the poor animal unlucky enough to come his way, its fur soft against his lips and its weight heavy in his maw. He hears the sickening crack of its spine, over and over again, and squeezes his remaining eye shut. The shame roils in his belly, twists and wrings his insides with jagged claws until it is all he can feel. The other feline had not tried to attack him. It was afraid, like him; just wanted to be left alone, like him. He killed it with no reason, without provocation, like a _monster_.

He becomes aware of a distressed whine nearby. It takes him several moments to realize it is his own. He forces himself quiet before anything can hear him. Alone in the dark, he lies still, his wounds throbbing in time with his turbulent heartbeat. Nanaki is tired. So tired.

He thinks of his grandfather and feels the old man's disappointment like a knife to the heart. He thinks of proud, fearless Deneh and how he has let her down.

A failure, just like his coward of a father before him.

Something inside him ignites at that thought; a spark that finds fuel in his honor and pride, and quickly flares up into a blaze of determination. His nostrils flare, his muscles tighten. His single eye snaps open, and Nanaki struggles to his feet.

No! He refuses to accept the fate Shinra has tried to foist upon him. He is not one of Hojo's monsters. He will not yield his reason and he will _not_ cower in the dark like a mewling cub. He may not be able to defend his home like his noble ancestors, but he can – he _will_ – defend himself and his honor. He is not his father. He is not a coward! As long as he draws breath, Nanaki will fight! Not like a mindless beast, but like a warrior. He will fight the _real_ monsters.


	3. Endgame

Rude runs, his lungs bursting and the gunshot still ringing in his ears, and prays he is not too late. An animal howls, a human yells and Rude bursts into the chamber just in time to see his partner climbing to his feet, silhouetted by a blaze of orange light that dwindles rapidly through the door beyond.

"Yo, Rude, late for the party again! Are ya gettin' old or somethin'?"

The voice is as loud and cocky as always, but he picks up on the rattled tone. The security guard giving Reno a hand does not, judging by the mix of disapproval and irritation on her face. Her other hand squeezes the pistol she took from her dead workmate and Rude puts two and two together.

He takes several seconds to let his breathing slow down to normal with the pretense of keeping watch on the corridor, then adjusts his tie and approaches his partner. Reno dusts off his suit and attempts to smooth out the white shirt that hangs free over his trousers. Rude is amused. A wrestling match on the floor could only improve the sorry state of the redhead's Turk uniform, in his opinion. Rude's hands unconsciously tug his wrinkle-free sleeves a little straighter while he checks his partner for injuries.

The younger man grins. "Don't look so worried, man, I'm alright. Landed on my ass this time, not my head."

Rude is sure he kept his features perfectly blank while he looked the other up and down. From behind his dark lenses, no less.

The redhead's grin widens and he claps Rude on the shoulder on his way past.

"Tho' it's nice to know you care, big guy."

Reno's ability to read him still surprises the bald man. Rude knows that he is not a very expressive person, in neither words nor body language, and he likes it that way. He also knows that without his wild-haired partner's powers of observation, their teamwork on the job would require a lot more talking, and so he has learned not to mind being an open book for the redhead. The lack of wasted words sits higher on his list of priorities.

Their comrades often express disbelief over the reticent Turk's willingness to endure the never-ending stream of babble from his skinny partner. They do not realize that every time Reno opens his mouth, Rude does not have to. He appreciates that, too.

Case in point, the argument currently playing out between Reno and the woman.

"You're still going after it?" Pierce hisses. "Even when there's more on the loose out there?"

"No, _we_ are goin' after 'em _all_ , darlin'. Gotta do what we gotta do, yo."

"Just the three of us? That's insane! Let the military take care of this!"

"What, call Heidegger and ask nicely?" The Turk's laugh rings bitter. "Yeah, right. The fat asshole would love to see us Turks dead. He's just gonna drag his feet 'til we're monster chow."

"But–"

"Give it a rest, will ya? We're on our own. Deal with it!"

Pierce huffs in frustration. She looks from Reno to Rude with pleading eyes, but finds no support on his face either. Rude does not disagree with his partner's assessment of the situation.

"Where'd ya go, anyway?" Reno asks her as he leads the way out of the chamber, following the bloody trail.

"I heard something," she says. "I went to take a look."

"What, without tellin' us?"

"It was just a look," she spits back. "I can take care of myself."

"That's hard to believe, with all the bitchin' you do."

Rude blinks at his partner's lack of tact. The woman looks like she is on the verge of punching something. Or someone.

"You know what, Reno? Fuck you."

"Anytime, baby."

Pierce scoffs, and flips him a rude gesture as she stomps off ahead. Her bronze hair swishes in time with her agitated steps.

Reno's smug smirk disappears.

"She says the one that jumped me is the one she saw before we showed up, but I don't think the red cat did the killin'," he says in a low voice, his eyes on the woman in front of them. "Not all of it, anyway."

Rude tilts his head toward the other man and lifts his eyebrows.

"Some of the wounds look like they might've been made by claws like that, sure, but others don't and I ain't seen nothin' today that could make 'em," he explains. "The big cat sure didn't eat the dead nasties in the holdin' pens, either. It's skinny as hell."

The bald man considers this.

"Think she's lying?"

Reno shrugs his shoulders and lets them fall with a exasperated sigh.

"Don't see why. She could've seen it around, I guess, and gotten the wrong idea. Just sayin' we oughta keep our eyes open. There's somethin' here we ain't seen yet."

Then the trail takes a turn into a new corridor and they all freeze in their tracks.

Large observation windows line the walls on both sides of the hallway, although from his vantage point, Rude cannot see what is behind them. What he can see is a human body, lying face down in a puddle of blood and a spray of glass, beneath a wide red streak that has run down the white wall. Thrown there, Rude surmises, through the shattered window on the opposite side. Another person has fallen halfway through the doorway beside it. Both corpses appear to be wearing medical scrubs.

Weapons ready, the trio creeps forward until Reno can sneak a peek into the room that appears to be the source of the devastation.

"Looks like some kinda operating room," he murmurs. "More bodies inside. Smells pretty bad, but I think we gotta check it out, yo."

Pierce goes pale.

"I'll, uh... I'll stay out here if it's all the same to you. Keep an eye out." Reno gives her an odd look and she adds, "I don't like the medical stuff. You know, operations and such."

"Fine, whatever."

The operating theater has been demolished. The only illumination comes from showers of flickering sparks, painting an eerie lightshow across the slaughter inside. Bodies litter the floor, splayed open and missing limbs. Rude almost trips on a severed arm. The brunette made the smarter choice, he decides.

The stench is unbelievable, like rotten eggs and compost. He covers his nose and mouth, gagging. Reno has already done the same. They struggle through a cursory examination, then flee for fresher air.

"Find anything?" Pierce asks.

"More dead guys," Reno chokes out, then coughs. "Nothin' on the operatin' table, tho'. I'm guessin' whatever was on it got real pissed and started tearin' off heads."

"Hojo's specimen," Rude rumbles.

The other Turk nods.

"What, _another_ monster to worry about?" the guard asks, then throws up her hands. "Fantastic. This is just fantastic."

"All you gotta worry 'bout right now is keepin' an eye on the hallway," Reno says. "We'll snoop 'round some more, yo."

Without waiting for a reply, he gestures to Rude to follow and leads the way into a tiny office across the corridor. Rude glances over the folders on the shelf beside the small desk; paperwork for the operating rooms, by the looks of it. The younger man picks up a clipboard hanging on the wall and scans the timetable attached to it.

"Here," he says and points at a line near the end of the list. "Scheduled half an hour before all hell broke loose."

"Mantichora," Rude reads. "Man eater."

Reno's eyebrows shoot up in surprise.

"Huh? That's what it means?" He gives his partner an appraising look. "How d'ya know that?"

"School," the bald man replies. "History."

"Yeah? So what is it?"

"Myth," Rude states with a small shrug. "An old folktale from the west."

"Don't look too mythical to me," Reno notes, glancing up at the body sprawled out on the opposite side of the corridor. "What's it s'posed to look like?"

Rude thinks for a moment.

"Don't remember."

The younger man rolls his eyes and tosses the clipboard onto a nearby chair.

"Thanks, buddy. That's real helpful."

Rude says nothing.

"Man eater," Reno grumbles as they head out. His grip on the handle shifts and tightens in a ceaseless rhythm. "The fuck's up with that? Hojo didn't think his monster was freaky enough without the fucked-up name?"

Pierce is waiting where they left her and Rude notices the relief on her face when she sees them. He rolls his shoulders in a hasty attempt to hide the sudden sting of guilt.

Better to let one of the monsters get her, he muses, less cover-up needed that way. If that fails, it will be Reno. When it is a pretty girl, it is always Reno.

Rude prides himself on being every inch the mean son of a bitch, but there are occasions when his conscience gets in the way. At times he falters, dwells pointlessly on alternatives. At times, he hesitates.

Reno does not hesitate, the bald Turk has learned. Reno just does what needs to be done and hates himself later.

After the medical rooms, they enter the laboratories, picking their way through upturned chairs and abandoned equipment. Pierce trips over something and the clatter echoes with alarming loudness. While normally a man who can appreciate solitude, the desolation of the darkened labs seeps into primal corners of Rude's awareness. His body primes itself for an attack that never comes, his mind imagines danger in every shadow. His leather gloves creak softly in the silence, stretching around his fists.

A scrunched-up pile of fabric catches his attention. He lifts it up between thumb and forefinger, and finds it to be a dark jacket covered in gore.

"Told you it was covered in guts," Pierce remarks.

The Turk turns it and discovers the insignia of Shinra security on the back. She ran a long way, he infers.

A number of glass bottles and test tubes have shattered on the floor nearby. A few of the liquids have evaporated; others have left the floor half-melted or blackened. Rude briefly ponders what effects the remaining ones might have on people. He drops the clothing and hastens his steps.

A man is lying on his front by a work station in the next room, his limbs sprawled out at awkward angles among scattered lumps of flesh, viscous fluids and broken glass. Something oozes out of a neat puncture wound in the small of the man's back and stains his white coat. It is too dark to be blood. An eyeball stares up at Rude, resting by the dead scientist's cheek. Another has rolled to halt near the man's shredded fingers.

Two steps later, Rude barely avoids crushing a third eye under his shoe. He looks back, this time noting the insufficient damage to the corpse, the paucity of blood. An unease begins in his spine as he surveys the strewn chunks of tissue. Some are amorphous, unidentifiable; others have shape and structure. Far too many could be human, and there are far too many for one body.

The research is necessary, Rude tells himself, but his brain pictures his own eyes goggling out from a jar to meet Hojo's reptilian stare.

In the next room, something else catches Reno's eye.

"Huh. Wonder why she took her clothes off, yo."

Rude approaches to find his partner studying a middle-aged woman twisted up in a corner, half-naked and very dead. Unlike the other bodies, this one has hardly a mark on her apart from the broken neck. A lab coat lies nearby, smeared with red handprints.

"Weird," Pierce comments. Her hand seeks the collar of her shirt, as if to check that her own clothing is still in place. "Could it be some kind of panic attack?"

Reno looks doubtful. Rude shrugs.

In the next room, they find a door bearing the name Hojo. Reno tries the handle, but the door is locked.

"Y'know," he says slowly, "I'm thinkin' there might be somethin' in here that could be worth a peek."

His eyes seek out Rude's and the bald man can tell he is looking for confirmation, not acquiescence. He understands why, too. Breaking into an executive's private office is no small matter. If Hojo suspects foul play, it could cost them their jobs. Their lives.

But it is the perfect opportunity – likely, the only opportunity – to discover some of the professor's secrets. They might uncover information vital for the survival of the Turks. They have pushed their luck for too long; now their influence with President Shinra hangs by a thread, the Head of Weapons Development is on the warpath and they have precious few allies among the executives. They will need every advantage they can get.

Rude nods, once.

The redhead pulls out a set of lockpicks and kneels by the door. Pierce frowns and clenches her fists a few times, but says nothing. Falling back on habit, Rude stands with his back to the wall and waits. Soon enough, the door clicks and swings open.

"Gotcha," Reno mutters, a small smirk of satisfaction on his lips. "Pierce, wait here. We'll look around."

A single emergency light over the door casts a pale gloom on the tidy office and its simple, functional furnishings. Metallic table legs and bare white surfaces make the office feel as sterile as the laboratories outside. A number of textbooks occupy the shelves lining the walls, but only the stack of files on the desk smells of valuable intel. There would be more on the computer, Rude guesses, but there is no time for that. The lack of electricity poses a bit of a problem, too.

A pale green square of paper is affixed to the top folder with a paperclip. Reno glances at the note, then pulls it off and offers it to Rude with a raised eyebrow. While the redhead skims through the papers in the file, Rude reads the short message.

_The results are right on target. I think_  
we're ready for the final stage of the  
Mantichora project.  
Jacob

"Ah, fuck it, it's all a bunch of sciency-soundin' words and numbers in tables," Reno huffs. "Can't make heads or tails of it, yo."

Rude skims over the titles of the other folders in the pile, but looks up when his partner speaks again.

"Hey, check this out."

The photo he holds shows a sphere, marbled in black and gray. No, not marbled, Rude corrects himself after a second look, the pattern is too blurry. More like some kind of swirling, black mist.

"Materia?" he suggests.

"Could be, I guess," Reno ponders. "Never seen one like that, tho'. Can't tell how big it is, either."

The redhead replaces the image and leafs through the remaining sheets of paper, then sighs and drops the file back on the desk.

"You deal with the paperwork. I'll see what's behind that other door."

Rude carefully reattaches the green slip of paper, then places the folder on top of the stack exactly as it was before. While his partner crouches down by a second door to the right of the desk, lockpicks in hand, Rude goes through the desk drawers, taking care to replace everything exactly where he found it. The professor is known for his meticulous eye for detail.

"What the fuck..."

Reno's tone of voice is what makes Rude freeze to the spot, his hands hovering over a stack of papers inside an opened drawer. He glances over his shoulder.

The other door is open. Reno still crouches on one knee, the look on his face sending a chill up the back of Rude's neck. He closes the drawer, then steps to the doorway for a hesitant look.

The first thing he notices is the sickly-green phosphorescence of Mako, glowing inside transparent cylinders. There must be a dozen of them, arranged in evenly spaced rows: specimen containers identical to the ones in the storage room.

The second is that unlike the storage room, these ones are not empty. Creatures float in them, deformed and grotesque, twisting slowly in silent imprisonment. Some of them look vaguely human, Rude realizes, as the bile rises into the back of his throat. They are all humanoid; maybe they were all humans, once. Now, they are displayed in all their inhumanity like exhibits in a freak show.

The redhead draws closer to one on the right, leaning forward to peer in with repulsed fascination.

"Holy shit," Reno whispers, his eyes like saucers.

The skin is thick and hide-like, in a shade of gray that borders on blue. Gnarled horns sprout from the top of its head. Its lips are pulled back – or dissolved, Rude thinks and tries to ignore the queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach – affixing a malevolent rictus grin on its once-human face.

The monster has been dissected. Its organs have been pulled out through a vertical slit on its torso and float in front of it, neatly arranged in what he assumes is an approximation of how they were originally placed on the inside. Rude quickly shifts his gaze back to its corrupted face again, deeming that a less disturbing sight.

The creature's eyelids twitch once, twice.

"Oh _fuck_ ," Reno breathes beside him. "That ain't right, man."

He staggers to the side, away from the tubes, frantically putting some distance between himself and the gruesome sight. Rude follows, fighting a swell of nausea. It's been a long while since he's had to do that on the job.

His partner does not appear to be doing any better. Reno fidgets, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. His pale face has taken a turn toward ashen, and he presses the back of his hand firmly against his mouth.

"Oh, shit. Fuck. Shit shit shit," he repeats like a mantra, his voice muffled and unsteady.

Rude wholeheartedly agrees.

The redhead's eyes scramble across the room, until something else catches his attention.

"Another stiff, yo."

His partner's demeanor changes in the blink of an eye and Rude recognizes the desperation for something else to claim his attention, something _normal_ to focus on. Normal, like a mangled corpse. The bald Turk allows himself a moment to appreciate the irony.

The body is slumped against a side door, as if the dead man dragged himself in and pushed it closed with his last ounce of strength. One of Hojo's research staff, judging by the tattered remains of his medical scrubs. Rude keeps watch while the redhead squats down to inspect it.

"Ripped open, just like the others," Reno reports.

Then he stiffens and leans in to peer closer. He digs something out from the torn clothing, gives it a brief inspection, then slips it into a jacket pocket. With the hand still in his pocket, Reno slowly rises to his feet, staring down at the body with a troubled expression on his face. Before Rude can inquire, the redhead's eyes fly wide open.

"Shit! Rude, that ball in the–"

A loud gasp cuts him off. The security guard stands in the door, staring at the Mako cylinders with horrified disgust. The next second she whirls around, fleeing the sight. The men trade the briefest glance before they rush after her, knowing Pierce can't be allowed to leave after what she has seen. Upon stumbling out of the room, however, they find her pacing the laboratory.

"What the _hell_ are those?" she demands, her voice so unsteady that the words are barely understandable.

"None of our business, that's what," Reno barks.

The woman turns her horrified glare on the Turk. Her hands are trembling.

"None of our business? How can you say that, after seeing those... those _things_? We can't just ignore something like this! Hojo is _sick_!"

"Hojo works for Shinra and so do you, so just shut up and do your fuckin' job. We still got a monster to catch, yo."

Reno's voice is cold and hard, all business, but Rude notices the ever-shifting grip on the mag rod.

Pierce's eyes shift to the chamber of horrors behind their backs.

"If it's a monster you want, you're looking in the wrong place," she grinds out through clenched teeth.

"You don't get paid to have opinions," the red-haired Turk snaps. "You get paid to follow orders, so quit your whinin' and fuckin' follow 'em already!"

The guard does not listen.

"To hell with you and the rest of Shinra!" she snarls, then dashes the door.

Reno takes off after her a split-second later. He is fast, the fastest of the Turks, but Pierce reaches the door first and vanishes into the darkness beyond. Rude has no time to marvel over her feat, for mere seconds after his partner sprints through the doorway after her, growls and screams erupts from the corridor. Rude reaches the door just as the main lights flicker on.

"Rude! Shoot it, shoot it!"

He does not need the redhead's encouragement; his gun is already raised and aimed at the mass of red fur latched onto the screaming and flailing guard. The beast flinches with a yelp when the dart sinks into its flank, but it refuses to release its hold on the woman. She is kicking wildly, trapped in its maw, but her feet rarely hit their mark. Rude hesitates, vacillating between his Turk training and his deep-rooted instinct to help a woman in peril.

The animal shudders. The back legs crumple. Then, it collapses with a drawn-out yowl.

Rude's instincts take over. He rushes to help the woman, but freezes on the spot when the red-furred cat twitches. It moves again, and this time Pierce manages to push the limp body off of her. He stares in astonishment while she scuttles backward, away from the feline, clutching her mangled arm. The bald man has heard of people performing impressive feats in an adrenaline rush – has experienced it himself a few times – but an injured woman moving a dead weight of that size is nothing short of incredible.

A silence falls, disturbed only by the labored breaths of the unconscious animal. Pierce sits with her back propped up against the wall, shaking and deathly pale in the cold, fluorescent light. Blood seeps through the tattered fabric on her mangled arm, flows to her elbow and drips into a growing puddle on the floor.

Then Reno moves, walking up to her with a measured swagger that sets off alarm bells in Rude's head. He watches as the redhead comes to a halt just out of her reach, the mag rod tapping a lazy rhythm against his shoulder while he looks her over. Her pained, frightened eyes snap to the face of the lanky man looming over her and Rude feels ice spread through his belly.

_Not right_ , whispers a tiny voice that should have disappeared long ago. He steels himself, wiping any trace of his stunted conscience from his face. Loose ends must be tied up. Shinra's secrets must be preserved.

"It was you all along, huh?"

That is not the line Rude expects. He hopes his shades are enough to hide his confusion.

Pierce gapes at Reno in surprise.

"You killed all those people, didn't ya?" he insists.

"What?" she squeals. "Have you finally lost it?"

"Your uniform," he says, looking her over. "Bit big, ain't it? A size or two?"

"What?" she snaps again, this time with weary impatience. "What the hell are you babbling about now?"

"The dead woman who'd lost her clothes looked a couple of sizes bigger than you, Funny, that."

Rude does not miss the slight flinch of her shoulders.

Reno pulls something out of his pocket and holds it up, sandwiched between two fingers. A Shinra ID card, flecked with red stains. Rude recognizes the face of the corpse they found.

"Jacob _Pierce_ , researcher," the younger man reads, then flicks the card onto the ground in front of her.

She stares at it. Her tongue flicks out to wet her lips. Rude's mouth feels dry.

"So we've got the same last name," she says, but doesn't quite get the indifference right. "What does that prove?"

A humorless smirk pulls on one corner of the redhead's mouth.

"Jacob Pierce, researcher on the Mantichora project. Mantichora, as in the monster that broke loose and slaughtered everyone. Just another funny coincidence, eh?"

Pierce goes still.

"It's a Summon, ain't it? You used it."

Her eyes widen even more, showing more white than gray. Her panicked gaze flickers between the Turks.

The redhead waits. His weapon continues its steady beat against the rumpled jacket.

"I didn't mean to," she finally whispers. "I don't know what happened. I couldn't–"

The woman's voice breaks. Her shoulders sag in defeat and she falls back against the wall.

"You don't know what they've done," she sobs. "You have no idea!"

"So it's revenge, is it?" Reno sneers. "Get a job at Shinra, wait for the right time, then just kill as many as you can?"

"No, it wasn't me! I just wanted out! I didn't want anyone to die! It wasn't me!"

She is not lying, Rude realizes with a sinking feeling.

"So, Mantichora–"

"Don't call me that!"

She howls the demand with all the despair of a wounded animal and it echoes in the silence that follows. Reno's smirk evaporates. Rude feels his stomach plummet as he, too, picks up on the implication.

"What are you?" the redhead asks, with a reluctance that suggests he does not really want to hear the answer.

"No, not me!" she wails. "It's not me! It's... It's _this_!"

With her good hand, she yanks her shirt open with enough force to send the top buttons flying. They fly past Rude's face unheeded, as he stares at her bared chest. In the middle of it, just above the swell of her breasts, the skin is nothing but a ragged mass of scars. At the center of it lies a small bump, like a marble lodged just under the skin. Ugly, black veins emerge from the sphere, striating the disfigured tissue, and burrow deep into her chest. They pulsate slowly, too slowly to be her heartbeat, pumping darkness into her body.

"See what he's done to me? Do you see what he's done!"

Her horrified misery reminds Rude of the _things_ they saw in the tanks. At the time, the Turk thought he had reached the limit of his revulsion. He was wrong.

"Hojo," his partner says, spitting it out as if the name is rancid on his tongue.

"Yes!"

She hisses the word with such pure hatred that the bald man isn't sure he hears a human voice anymore. He tenses and prepares for a change. A shift of shape. Whatever it is that she can do.

It never comes. The emotion drains away as quickly as it appeared, leaving nothing but a weary absence of hope on her wan face. Her hand lets go of the shirt and falls to her side.

"Don't worry," she says tiredly. "It's still weak. It can't come out again so soon."

Reno stands still, staring at the blackened spot on her chest, now half-hidden by her shirt. The muscles in his jaw are working, but he does not speak.

"I _was_ a security guard, you know," she informs them, staring up at nothing. "Was so damn proud of my first real job with a big, famous company. Well, that lasted about two whole weeks. Until that evil son of a bitch got his hands on the results of my employee medical."

Rude resents the way his fists tighten on their own, but he cannot help it. The company turning on one of its own will never sit right with him. It is one reason why he is Turk first, Shinra employee second.

"What will you do now?" the woman asks in a lifeless monotone.

Reno replies in a tone as flat as hers, and this time the words are what Rude expects.

"Orders are to round up all of Hojo's specimens. That includes you. Especially you."

"No!"

She struggles, smearing the crimson puddle beside her in the pathetic effort to pick herself up from the floor, but the loss of blood has taken its toll. Giving up, she slumps onto her knees and raises her gaze instead, but finds no sympathy on the blank face of Reno. Rude wonders if his own features manage to betray that little emotion.

"No, no, no, please! I can't go back!"

She is desperate, begging for mercy. For a second, the anguished eyes look straight into his and he feels a tightness squeeze his chest. It's best to make this quick. He moves in beside his partner and loads another dart into the chamber.

"Please! You can't let him take me! You have no idea what it's like, what he'll do if I go back! I can't take any more of it! I can't! Just let me go! _Please!_ "

The bald Turk pretends not to hear her terrified pleas, pretends not to see the tears streaming down her face and aims the tranquilizer gun at her torso.

"Sorry," he murmurs.

An ear-splitting blast punctuates the statement. The shapeshifter jerks violently, then slumps to the side in slow-motion, leaving a sickening mess of blood, brains and bone painted on the wall.

In the deafening stillness that follows, Rude whirls his head around to stare open-mouthed at his partner. Smoke curls from the barrel of the pistol in Reno's hand, now hanging limp by his side.

"Tranqs didn't work," the man says in a voice as dead as the woman on the floor, his eyes transfixed on her broken form. "She came right for us. Had to shoot her."

The bald Turk watches him turn around and leave. There is no cocky strut in his step, no sign of his smug confidence.

Orders have been violated. A decision must now be made, but Rude doesn't see it that way. There is no choice, not really. It is not a matter of right and wrong. He raises the tranquilizer gun and fires, seeing his target twitch upon impact. He waits for a moment, until the twinge of remorse passes. Then he turns and heads out of the room, quickening his steps to catch up with his partner.

It is a matter of loyalty.


End file.
